


Crossing Over

by ThatGirlFromHobbiton (ShardsOfNarsil), whitchry9



Category: Cabin Pressure, Doctor Who (2005), Lost, Robin Hood (BBC 2006), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen, Holodeck, Hurt/Comfort, Plane Crash, STOP BLEEPING ME, Sonic Screwdriver, TARDIS - Freeform, Time Travel, Travelling Lemon, crossovers, dream like, fun stuff, injuries, john has a fun time, space ship, space travel, travelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:17:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShardsOfNarsil/pseuds/ThatGirlFromHobbiton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is reality? When Doctor John Hamish Watson suddenly collapses outside 221B, he is sent spiralling through time and space. Is he dead? Dreaming? Or has he just spent too much time on fanfiction sites and Tumblr? We'll let you know when we figure it out.<br/>Chapters alternate being written between whitchry9 and ThatGirlFromHobbiton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by ThatGirlFromHobbiton.

Doctor John Hamish Watson yawned and rubbed his eyes. It hadn't been a particularly long day, but he still found himself tired. Unnaturally, unreasonably so. He staggered a bit, a threw out an arm to rebalance himself, inadvertently scraping his knuckles on the brick wall of the block of flats he was walking next to on his way...on his way...he blinked. Home, he thought, on the way home. Had he just forgotten where he was going? He shook his head, a slow, laborious action, and had just resolved to make himself a large cup of tea and have a quick nap, when everything suddenly slipped away, and he collapsed, unconscious, to the sidewalk just outside 221B Baker Street.


	2. Chapter One: Come Fly the Friendly Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by whitchry9.

John didn't know how long it had been, but he awoke, not to the sidewalk of Baker street, or even to the couch of their flat (perhaps Sherlock had carried him) but to a rather cramped, but comfortable, seat on an airplane. A very small airplane, he noted, looking around. There couldn't have been more than... oh 16 or so seats.

The plane wasn't even full. There was no one sitting beside him. Or behind him. Or in front of him. John scrunched up his face in confusion. Was there even anyone else on the plane? _Pilots, of course,_ he reminded himself.

As he was glancing around the plane, looking for any signs of life, let alone any clues to what he was doing there (Mycroft perhaps?) a lemon rolled down the aisle.

John sighed and sat back in his seat. It was going to be one of _those_ things.

He stared out the window, hoping perhaps that he could somehow determine where they were going. Not likely, he knew, except if they flew over a large sign. Everything looked the same from the sky.

“Excuse me sir. I would like to inform you at this time that the seat belt sign has been dis-illuminated for your walking about the cabin leisure, although it is recommended that if you are sitting your seat belt should remain fastened at all times to ensure your paramount safety.”

John looked over during the middle of this rather confusing speech to see a man with an unusual hat talking to him. He also seemed rather chipper. Unnervingly so.

“Umm...” John hesitated, not wanting to sound like a complete idiot, although considering the man he was speaking to, this would likely not be a problem. “Can you just remind me where we're going?”

“Of course!” The man beamed. “We left from Sydney Australia, it was brilliant there, did you see the opera house? And now we're heading to Los Angeles in the United States! I've never been there before. Have you? I expect it's brilliant!”

“No... I don't think I have...” John looked at the man's name tag. “...Arthur. And I don't think I saw the opera house.” _Or any other parts of Sydney, to be honest. But let's not go into that, because I have no clue what the hell is going on. A dream? That would explain some of the weirdness, like that bloody lemon..._

“Also...” John paused, Arthur looking at him eagerly. “There was a lemon rolling down the aisle. Is that?...”

“Oh that's just Skip and Douglas. They get bored so they play games.” He paused. “Although I probably shouldn't have told you that.”

John attempted a smile.

_Bing bong._

“Arthur to the flight deck please. Now.”

“Oh, that's me. I'd better go.”

Arthur practically bounced off. John watched him go wearily.

He didn't have the energy to attempt to figure this out. He returned to looking out the window, the knowledge of where they were going being of no help to figure out anything below him.

Soft footsteps were coming down the aisle. Definitely not Arthur's footsteps, John thought, that man was incapable of doing anything quietly.

The footsteps hesitated every so often, like the man was looking for something.

“Are you looking for a lemon?” John asked, not bothering to look up from the window.

“Umm, why yes. Yes I am,” the man stuttered.

 _That voice..._ John snapped his head around to stare at the man who possessed Sherlock's voice. He looked like Sherlock's too, the same cheekbones, the same eyes. But it couldn't be him. Even as gifted as Sherlock was with disguises, there was no way he could lose a foot of height. Besides, Sherlock would never dye his hair that colour.

Collecting himself, John jerked his head in the direction he'd seen the lemon do. “It rolled that way a little while ago. Who are you?” John asked.

“I'm the Captain, Captain Martin Crieff.”

_Captain... something Sherlock had told him...._

“Can I see your left thumb?”

Martin looked at John oddly.

“It's just... something a friend told me about pilots.”

Martin seemed dubious, but held out his hand for John to examine his thumb. It was calloused, but  John could tell no difference between it and Martin's other thumb, or between his thumb and Martin's.

He shrugged. “I dunno. My friend told me that you could tell an airline pilot by his left thumb, but he didn't specify how.”

Martin nodded slowly. “Umm, right. Well I'd better get back,” he said, backing away from John.

“Giving up on the lemon?”

Martin blushed. “I'm never good at this game anyway.”

John nodded, and tried not to smile and Martin almost tripped over the worn carpet in the plane while walking backwards.

Martin blushed the same shade as his hair and spun around, practically running towards the flight deck.

John, rather puzzled, returned to the window.

There was a jerk, and another and the tiny plane shuddered about violently. The seat belt sign went back on. John could just imagine what Arthur would say about that. _“As we have hit a bit of turbulence, the seat belt sign has been re-illuminated and Skip... er the captain would like to remind you that your seat belt should be safely fastened and your carry-ons safely stowed in the overhead bins for your paramount safety and... safeness. Thank you for flying MJN air.”_

Then they were falling, diving. John watched the lemon fly through the air before everything went black.


	3. Chapter Two: Die Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by whitchry9.

John awoke in the sand and his first thought was _oh god I'm back in Afghanistan._ John looked around, dazed. The plane had morphed from a tiny sixteen seater to a Boeing 777. One that was currently scattered about in bits and pieces, some of which were on fire.

John lay his head back in the sand and closed his eyes, hoping that when he reopened them, he would be back on the other plane, or back on the sidewalk outside of Baker street, or in their flat, or even in a hospital. He would take a hospital over this.

But when he reopened them, the sunlight was still there, he could still see the scattered bits of wreckage on fire, and there were still people screaming all around him.

A man, _barely a man,_ came over to John, eyes crazed. “Do you have a pen?!” he bellowed. Shocked, John shook his head. He moved on to the next person.

John stood up and shook the sand off himself, surveying the damage. The sheer immensity of it all shocked him for a few seconds.

He shook his head, _you can't do this. No freezing up. Not now_ and looked around to see where he could help.

There was a man lying near a piece of debris, bleeding from a wound in his thigh.

_Not spurting, just... bleeding. That's good. I can fix that._

John rushed over to him.

“What's your name?” he practically yelled over the sound of burning and wreckage, his fingers examining the wound.

“Neil,” the man replied, yelping as John's fingers probed sensitive nerve endings.

“I'm John. I'm a doctor. This wound is serious, but it's not arterial. I'm going to use your belt as a tourniquet.” As John said this, he was already yanking the man's belt off his pants and tightened it around his leg. “You just stay here, alright? I'll come back.”

Neil nodded anxiously, but John didn't have time to comfort him. There were so many others.

He spotted a very pregnant woman gasping and clutching her stomach. _No, no, no, please..._

John rushed over to her, grabbing her by the elbows and looking into her eyes.

“Hey. It's okay. I'm John, and I'm a doctor. Are you having contractions?”

She nodded. “I, I think so. Yeah.”

“What's your name?”

“Claire,” she replied, biting her lip.

“Okay, Claire, how far along are you?”

“I'm... I'm nearly eight months.” She had a soft Australian accent that would be perfect to sing her little baby to sleep.

“Okay,” he said reassuringly. “Okay. Just keep taking deep breaths. You need to calm down a bit. It's going to be fine.”

Except perhaps not. There was a horrible creaking noise that sounded like breaking buildings, and John looked up in horror to find that they were standing under the one wing of the plane. The wing that now seemed determined it was not going to stay attached to the body of the plane and wanted to get to know the ground better. The ground they were standing on.

He shoved Claire out of the way and braced himself as the wing began to swing towards him, blinding him with a flash of light and an unusual noise that he was sure he'd heard before...


	4. Chapter Three: Meanwhile At Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by whitchry9.

Sherlock was unsettled. It was a feeling he rather didn't like. He accepted boredom, anger, joy, hatred, interest, as well as a few others, but he did not like or accept this unsettling feeling that was plaguing him.

He supposed _no, not supposed, knew_ it started when John collapsed outside of their flat.

John had texted him claiming he was on his way home. Sherlock knew exactly how long it should have taken him to get home, given the pace he walked at and the amount of traffic.

He was late. Sherlock wasn't one to get worried either, but he claimed that hovering at the window was not worrying, it was just... watching. Observing. So when John came along, behind schedule and looking like he was drunk, Sherlock may have been concerned. And when John finally collapsed completely, Sherlock may have been worried. Just a little.

So he raced down the stairs and out into the street, where some bystanders stood over him unhelpfully.

“Move!” Sherlock snapped at them, and they obeyed. Sherlock checked John's pulse, still there, and his breathing, still there. Warm though. Sick? Likely.

Surveying John's body, Sherlock calculated the most efficient and least painful way to carry him into the flat.

He finally decided there wasn't one, and, ignoring the whispering of the gathered crowd, heaved John over his shoulder and staggered up the stairs.

He threw John on the couch with slightly more force than was probably necessary and went to check his bed for any lingering experiments or messes. He threw a couple textbooks on the floor and decided that would work well enough.

“Sorry John,” he said to him, standing over his sleeping form in the living room. “But I'm not carrying you up another set of stairs.”

And with that, Sherlock dragged John into his bedroom and plopped him on the bed.

“I suppose I should remove your coat. And shoes. And one of your jumpers,” Sherlock muttered, more to himself than John, because obviously John wasn't listening.

So he did that, pondering why John felt the need to wear a jumper with two shirts underneath it.

“Alright John. Time to wake up now. You know. Yell at me. Inform me of what to do.” Sherlock stood there impatiently. “I'm not kidding. Does this look like my kidding face?” he demanded.  (Sherlock really had no clue what his kidding face looked like. Most of the time it just did whatever it wanted.)

When it appeared that John would be doing no such thing, Sherlock sighed and sulked off to go look for the thermometer.


	5. Chapter Four: It's Bigger on the Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written together. AKA ThatGirlFromHobbiton talked and whitchry9 typed and made it into something coherent.

John blinked. He was no longer on the beach. There was no longer an airplane wing headed for him. He was in some sort of control room.

“What?”

John blinked.

“What?!”

John looked at the man who was making those noises and shrugged.

“ _What?!_ ”

 _Yes, alright, enough of that now._ John would take charge of this. Or at least figure out who the man was.

“But... that's impossible.”

John nodded morosely. He'd been telling himself that ever since he ended up on the plane, then the island... and now whatever this was.

“Who are you?” John asked.

“I'm the Doctor!”

“Doctor who?”

The Doctor grinned at John. This felt vaguely familiar, but how... John couldn't put his finger on it.

“I'm a doctor too,” he said.

“Really?” The man looked excited. “What kind? Where?”

John shifted uncomfortably. “I'm a trauma surgeon mostly. I trained in London but I spent a while practising in Afghanistan.”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. “A military man?”

John nodded. “A captain, yeah.”

The Doctor's face seemed to darken slightly.

“Welcome aboard Doctor.”

John attempted to smile. “Doctor. You can call me John.”

“You can call me Doctor.”

The man grinned, and so did John along with him. It seemed his mood was contagious.

“Right then,” he declared. “Let's get down to business.... to defeat the Huns.” He paused, frowning. “No, that's not right. That's Mulan.” He shook his head. “The business of how you got aboard the TARDIS.”

The Doctor began pacing around John, examining him in great lengths.

“Erm... what's the TARDIS?”

“Time and relative dimension in space. It's dimensionally transcendental and equipped with a chameleon circuit.” Seeing John's blank expression, he clarified. “It's my ship. It's bigger on the inside.”

John nodded. That he could understand. Well... not really. But...

“So... where are we?”

“Near Barcelona.”

“The city?”

“No, the planet. They've got dogs with no noses.” He grinned at John. “Are you human?”

John nodded.

“A bit far from home for you then.”

John frowned. “Hang on- you're not human?” _Of course he's not, he's got a bloody space ship._

“Time Lord.”

John nodded like the whole thing made sense.

“Umm...” he began, but was cut off by The Doctor.

“So... How did you get here?...” he muttered to himself, banging about on the wide array of machinery and dials in the middle of the... room. “Aha!” he said, holding up a small object.

The man, The Doctor, John corrected himself, pointed it at him. It made a strange buzzing noise and shone at him.

“What are you doing?” John asked, worried the man was using it as a weapon.

“No traces of huon energy...” he muttered. “Which is good I suppose. But doesn't explain anything...”

“Can you take me home?” John asked, suddenly exhausted. All he wanted to do was sit in his chair by the fireplace, listen to Sherlock play his violin, and type out a blog post while sipping at his tea.

“Where?”

“221B Baker Street. London. Greater London. NW1 6XE. United Kingdom.” John rolled the numbers off, his military background clearly evident. After a moment, he added hesitantly, “Earth.”

The Doctor paused in his mad rearrangement of dials and knobs.

“Baker Street...” he muttered to himself. He perked up after a moment. “Isn't that the address of Sherlock Holmes?”

John nodded uneasily. How did this man know about Sherlock? “He's my flatmate.”

The Doctors face clouded over for a minute. He shook his head, shaking himself out of it, returning to the man John had seen since his arrival.

“What year? Well, what date specifically.”

“April 3rd. 2012.”

The Doctor nodded.

“Not yet...” he whispered to himself. At least, that's what it sounded like to John.

“Sorry?” John asked him.

“Nothing. Hang on. I'll get you home!”

His advice was sound. John was thrown around as the ship, the TARDIS, shuddered and... flew (was the the proper word? John wasn't sure). He clung onto a railing that was conveniently placed.

Finally, the movement and noises stopped. John looked to The Doctor.

“John...” he said softly. “I just want you to remember something.”

John nodded.

“Never stop believing.”

And with that, he perked up again.

“We're here!” The Doctor announced, jumping over to the doors and standing in front of them. He waited until John was standing next to him and threw them open, revealing brilliant sunlight.

 


	6. Chapter Five: We Are John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by ThatGirlFromHobbiton.

John blinked in the sudden onslaught of light as a door was suddenly thrown open at the end of the room. The very small room, he managed to note through squinted eyes. He glanced tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes, but was met with the opposition of what seemed to be, at closer inspection, old-fashioned manacles binding his wrists together. REALLY old-fashioned manacles. John frowned as he tested their strength. These were _real_ , he realized, and strong, too. But after hundreds of years they should be-

“Are you alright?” said a figure in the doorway, and John looked up, his eyes finally adjusted to the light. A younger man stood there, concern on his unshaven face, a hood over his head, and a bow slung over his shoulder. John stared. Where was he?

“Are you alright?” repeated the man. “Can you stand?”

Finally, John found his voice. “Where am I? What am I doing here?” He immediately regretted the words, deciding he sounded like some of the dumber criminals he and Sherlock had come across. Or, as Sherlock would say, like Anderson.

“You’re in Sherwood Forest. My forest.”

 _Sherwood_? “And that would make you…?”

“Robin of Locksley.” He bowed slightly. “At your service.”

John groaned. “Robin Hood? I’m supposed to believe you are Robin Hood?”

“And why wouldn’t you?” asked Robin.

“Mostly because Robin Hood is a _story_ ,” John said, emphasizing the last word, “set over one thousand years ago. Did-oh!” he stopped, seeming to come to some sort of realization. “Sherlock put you up to this, didn’t he. An experiment in gullibility? I’m not that much of an idiot, thank you! In fact, I-”

“Robin!” came a second voice from outside what John suddenly realized was not a room, but a closed cart. “Horses approaching! Will went to scout ahead. It’s Gisborne’s lot!” Robin looked at John, the picture of calm, but for his eyes. John had seen that look so many times before, from his senior officers, fighting to stay calm, in control. But the eyes always gave it away.

“We’ve got to go.” Robin called. “Everybody back to camp!” Before John could wonder who ‘everybody’ was, Robin had spoken again. “I don’t know what Gisborne wants with you, but I do not think it will be a good thing if he gets it. All the same, you can stay if you wish, or you can come with us. But you need to decide now.”

John stood. “But this can’t-”

“Are you coming?” _Make a decision_. An unspoken order. John was used to those as well, and he reacted instantly. He was manacled and crammed into a small cart. Anything had to be better than that. And he was beginning to wonder if Sherlock did have anything to do with what was happening after all. What scientific knowledge could he glean from this?

John nodded at the young man, and the man stepped aside, allowing John to exit. As John stepped out, he took in his surroundings. He was, In fact, in a forest, with trees towering all around him. The sun was warm, even through the trees, and John couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the whole scene was.

“Follow me.” Another order, but John felt strangely at ease following this man. He seemed to know what he was doing, and had a certain nobility about him that was easy to respect.

John shook his head. He was romanticizing the whole thing. What he needed to do was figure out where he was and what was going on, and then get back to 221B Baker Street as soon as possible. He wondered if Sarah had called the flat yet about his not showing up for work. He frowned as he ran up a hill behind Robin. Did he have work? What day was it? Lost in his thoughts he nearly ran into Robin, who had stopped suddenly in front of him. Immediately a section of the hill lifted up, revealing what John realized must be the camp Robin had spoken of earlier. He and Robin barely managed to slip in before it closed again behind them, and John had just enough time to catch a glimpse a handful of other figures, including a particularly large man and a pretty but fierce-looking young woman with short hair, before they were plunged into darkness.

There was silence, broken only by John’s ragged breathing as he fought to catch his breath. He had thought he was in shape, especially from running about London with Sherlock all the time, chasing criminals, but it seemed Robin and his gang were far swifter and more fit than John was. Suddenly he could hear hoofbeats, and he covered his mouth with his still bound hands to try to quiet his panting, now certain he was no longer in the England he knew.

The hoofbeats grew steadily closer, then stopped almost directly above the group. Nobody moved. There was a dull thud of someone dismounting, and a sneering voice rose up. “I know you’re here, Hood.” It growled. “And you’ve got the physician. Knowledge he may have, but light on his feet he’s not. We followed the trail quite easily. And it ends here. I could send my men out to scout, but I don’t feel like playing games. Perhaps I’ll just set fire to the underbrush. Either you make a run for it and we catch you, or you die. Either way, I’ll sleep well tonight.” John could tell the man was grinning. There was a pause, and then the make spoke again, all mirth gone from his voice. “Last chance!”

Robin sighed quietly. “No.” came a voice from the darkness, probably the large man John had seen earlier. “I don’t want any of you getting hurt.” Robin whispered. “I’ll try to bargain with him. If things look bad, run. Try to avoid fighting. They will be armed, so-”

“No, master!” came another voice, a little too loud, considering the man standing just a stone’s throw from them.

“Shush, Much.” Robin hissed.

“Much is right.” The girl, this time. “We won’t let him take you.”

“We fight.” Stated the larger man again.

A new voice was added to the mix. “We’re gonna die.”

“Maybe, Alan, but we still have to try.” The girl again.

“If anyone cares,” another voice offered, “I built a back way out of here. Just thought you might be interested.”

There was silence again. “Will, I don’t know whether to kiss you, or hit you for not telling us sooner.” Robin said, relief evident in his voice.

“Let’s go with the second. Marian might get jealous. This way.” The one called Will said.

“But what about the fire?” John asked. “We could get out of here, but this whole forest could go if that man does anything stupid.”

“Right.” Agreed Robin. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll go.” John offered.

“No. Guy of Gisborne and the Sheriff of Nottingham are-”

“A bit not good. Got it. But I’m not going to tell them anything.”

“What is it they want from you, anyway?” Much asked.

“I’m not exactly sure. I don’t…I don’t remember anything from before you rescued me. No, I take that back. I remember, but…”

“But what?” The girl prompted.

“But it doesn’t make a lot of sense.” John finished, finally.

“You’re not going out there.” Robin insisted.

John looked at Robin, or at where he thought he was, as it was too dark to be certain. A silent battle of wills followed, then John’s shoulders slumped in resignation.

“We go.” The big man stated, and they all followed the sound of Will’s whispering further into a tunnel in the back of the large hole they had all been hiding in.

“What’s your name, physician?” asked Robin as they made their way along the tunnel.

John said nothing, due large in part to the fact that he was not with the group, but had found a quiet corner and waited until the sound of voices died away. Then, he had lifted the cover to the hole, and clambered out. At the feet of Sir Guy of Gisborne.

Sir Guy grabbed John by his collar and dragged him to his feet. “Find the rest of them!” he ordered the men that stood around him, but John knew they had enough of a head start that they would be safe. “When we’re done with you,” Sir Guy spat, “We’ll have all the information we need to ensure King Richard’s return to England is a brief one.”

With a look of disgust, Guy shoved John at one of his men. John staggered, and fell, landing hard. But it was not the ground of Sherwood forest he found himself laying on, but a smooth, hard surface. He looked around. The room was empty, save for a strange sort of desk, with a man standing behind it. The man reached up and touched a pin on his chest. “Transporter Room to Bridge. Captain, I’ve got him.”


	7. Chapter Six: One to Beam Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by ThatGirlFromHobbiton.

“Transporter Room to Bridge. Captain, I’ve got him.”

John clambered to his feet and stepped down from the strange platform. He was just about to ask the man behind the desk where he was, when a reply issued from the man’s pin.

“Acknowledged. On my way.” The curt response told John that wherever he was, it was military in nature. And military was something John could handle. A captain of some sort was on her way down from the bridge to see him, which told him two things. One, that he was on a ship of some sort, and two, that he had better be on his best behaviour. He straightened his uniform before registering the fact that it was indeed a uniform he was wearing. He ran a hand up the black sleeve, and fingered the green shoulder. _What-?_

The doors swished open, and a woman strode into the room. The man behind the desk immediately pulled himself to attention, and John quickly followed suit. The woman stopped in front of him. “Mr. Watson.”

 _How does she know who I am?_ wondered John. The woman looked at him expectantly.

John looked around. “Um. Yes. Doctor John Watson.”

“I am aware of your name and position. I have read your file, doctor. Its contents were the main reason I asked you to join the crew of _Voyager_.”

John nodded, the action belying the utter confusion he felt. There was silence. The woman raised an eyebrow.

“Most people ask for permission to board.”

John started. _Right. Of course._ He pulled himself straighter. “Captain. Permission to come aboard.”

A small smile flickered across the captain’s face. “Granted. Welcome aboard _Voyager_ Lieutenant Commander.”

\-------------------------

John wandered the corridors of the strange ship, attempting to find the sickbay. Walking through a set of doors, he found himself on what he assumed must be the bridge, though it seemed to be in a strange location. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, however, as he took in the room. He didn’t remember feeling any impact, yet here the bridge was, in pieces. Panels lay strewn about, sparking, and small fires were burning all over. Many of the crew were unconscious, but some lay where they had been thrown, moaning, or, in some cases, fighting to get up as the bridge lurched. _How had he not felt this in the corridor?_ he wondered as the floor bucked beneath him. It didn’t matter. What mattered now was helping these people.

 _The captain_ , John thought, carefully making his way to the centre chair, _the captain is priority_. Finally reaching the command seat, he found his commanding officer semi-conscious, and bleeding heavily where something had clipped her temple. He wished he had some of his medical tools.

“Captain!” He shouted over the red-alert klaxon, which was still blaring. He wished he knew how to deactivate it. “Captain! Can you hear me? Ma’am?”

The captain muttered something about ‘crunch time’, but her eyes focused on John’s. He was just about to check for a concussion, when a voice behind him made him jump.

“Computer, end program.” The bridge shimmered and disappeared around him, replaced by a smaller grey room, the floor patterned with yellow grid lines.

“What’s the matter? Never seen a holodeck before?” asked the other occupant of the now otherwise empty room, a tall brown-haired man with a red-shouldered uniform.

“No,” said John said, but at the other man’s expression of suspicion, quickly continued. “No, I mean, of course I’ve seen a holodeck, I just…I haven’t seen the ones on this type of ship before.”

The man nodded, as if understanding. “Ah. The Intrepid-class. She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Wish I could get my hands on the helm, but I’m only here as navigator. That’s been made abundantly clear to me.” He rolled his eyes and held out a hand. “Tom Paris.”

“John Watson.” John replied, shaking the proffered hand firmly.

“Wanna grab something in the mess hall before we leave Deep Space 9?”

“Deep Space…?” John repeated incredulously.

Tom gave him a sideways look.

John shook his head. “Yeah. Sorry. Been a bit of day for me. Lead on.”

As Tom exited the holodeck, explaining that everything had been under control, using words like ‘program’ and ‘holograms’ and mentioning something about a training scenario, John paused to look around once more in disbelief. Then, finally, he turned and headed toward the door.

The door slid open, but instead of revealing the corridor that had previously lain beyond, John was assaulted by a blinding light.


End file.
